


Advent: Ache

by FyrMaiden



Series: Klaine Advent 2014 [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Parent Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:43:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2776889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Klaine Advent Prompt: Ache</p>
            </blockquote>





	Advent: Ache

Kurt remembers the last holiday that didn’t come with sadness only hazily now. He was 7 years old, still believed in Santa, and still didn’t fully understand that the world could be insufferable cruel and hazardously unkind. Every holiday from Independence to Easter of his eighth year had been touched by his mother’s illness and death, and the Christmas of 2002 had been a muted affair at his aunt’s house, where everyone opened presents wrapped in metallic paper and Kurt had watched his dad cry again, even though he’d gone into the kitchen to do it. Kurt had sat on the floor, surrounded by pretty things that were supposed to make him smile and laugh, and had tried to work out how he could make his dad smile again.

Every year after that had been a process of navigating festivities when there were only two of them to celebrate them, and every one - birthdays, anniversaries, holidays - had come and gone tinged with sadness, even as the wounds closed and the pain faded into sepia melancholy. When they had finally found the time to box the last of Elizabeth’s clothes and jewellery, Kurt had kept one perfume bottle back. He said it smelled of her, and it was pretty like her, and his dad hadn’t had the heart to say no. The bottle moved into Kurt’s room, standing in the window where the sun could catch it, until Christmas, when he decided to turn it into a decoration for the tree and in that way, she would always be there to share Christmas with them as well.

After Christmas, he wrapped it very carefully in tissue and tucked it away, inside of a box, with the rest of the decorations, storing her memory in the attic for a little while, to be dusted off and loved again when the time was right.

The first year he had allowed Blaine to help him with the tree, he had hung the decoration discreetly, trailed over it with reverent fingers, and let himself feel the tug of missing her in his heart. Then he’d rearranged the lights to sparkle in the glass, refracting like tiny stars off of the surface. He allowed himself to smile, and to believe in comforting lies. He allowed himself to think the the stars were her, for all that they were electric and entirely manufactured.

“What is that?” Blaine asked softly, coming to stand beside him, sock-clad toes bumping against the boxes still to be unpacked.

Kurt turned his smile to Blaine, felt it become slightly more real as he took in Blaine’s earnest face. He shrugged a shoulder as if he knew it was silly. He looked back at the ornament and his smile dropped slightly. “It was my mom’s,” he said. “We - I wanted to keep it, when I was little. It’s a sort of tradition, I suppose? So we can tell ourselves she’s with us.”

Blaine was silent for a moment, and Kurt risked glancing at him. He knew Blaine wouldn’t do anything to make him feel awkward, but he didn’t expect the sadness. “Does it work?” he asked, and Kurt huffed a tiny laugh.

“Less than it used to, more than it should,” he replied. “It’s never really gone, you know?”

“Yeah,” Blaine murmured, and Kurt shook his head.

“You don’t,” Kurt said, and reached for Blaine’s hand, squeezed it gently. “You shouldn’t. It’s okay.”

The lights flashed and changed, and the light faded slowly.

And it really was okay.


End file.
